An Ill Conceived Notion
by Illwynd
Summary: In which Boromir falls ill, Orcs attack, and all in all it is an interesting night.


Title: An Ill-conceived Notion  
Author: illwynd  
Disclaimer: Not mine, yadda yadda  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Boromir, Faramir, several OMC's.  
Summary: Boromir falls ill, Orcs attack, and all in all it is an interesting night.  
Notes: Comments always welcome.

Boromir rarely became ill, but he had certainly managed it this time. It had come on suddenly; this past morn he had felt fine, perhaps a little weary. Now, his head swam with fever, his skin oozed chill sweat, his stomach roiled and his limbs felt weak. He slept fitfully on the camp bed as the waxing moon rose.

The company was too far afield to safely send him –even horsed and with escort—to the City, or even to any of the villages nearer by where there might be a healer, at least until daylight. Orcs had been testing the borders sporadically, some worming their way into Gondor in small groups that hid during the sun's brightness, but crept out at night to terrorize the villagers. All the companies in the area had to keep a sharp eye at night to spot them, if indeed they were not spotted first themselves. And just hours ago, a messenger had come from Ithilien. The man was one of Faramir's Rangers, and he warned that a larger group of Orcs had been spotted, heading for the river, at nightfall. There would be a major attack tonight.

Boromir had been reluctantly convinced by Hallas, his second-in-command, to remain at the camp with a small number of men, so that the rest could fight this battle without worrying for the safety of their nearly deliriously ill Captain. Truly, he was too ill to fight, Hallas had said; he could sit this one out. At the time, he had grudgingly agreed, and had fallen back heavily onto the piled blankets. He was asleep before the large part of the company had left the camp.

Now he woke just as suddenly. He still felt as if he were burning and freezing at once, as if trolls were tapping out a tattoo on his skull, as if many small lizards were panicking in his belly. He made a face; his mouth tasted as if something had crawled into it and died. Worst of all, he grumbled to himself, what was he doing here while there was a battle occurring in his vicinity? His men were fighting, he should be with them, ill or no!

With some effort he tossed aside the blankets that covered him, and sat up. The world spun, but only briefly. Not far from him a handful of men were gathered around a small, well-shielded fire, munching something saved from the evening's ration, and talking quietly. He cleared his throat of the mucus that had gathered there.

"Gailon, have you any liquor in your pack? Something strong that would make for good medicine? Do not tell me you have drunk it all already?"

The man addressed scrunched up his face. "If I let everyone know I had it, there _would_ be none left by now," he said, but obligingly stood, and dug into the pack he had been using as a seat. After some searching he drew out a small silver bottle, and handed it solemnly to his Captain. Boromir tossed away the remains of the foul-tasting tea that Hallas had insisted would make him feel better, and filled the emptied cup. The liquor warmed his throat, and soon he was feeling much better…

An hour later, of the seven men who had stayed behind, two were standing guard a little distance away from the camp, four had drifted asleep around the fading embers of the fire… and one, after struggling to pull on maille and belt, walked out into the darkness, sword in hand, tottering slightly.

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Ciryandil, son of Calmacil, stalked through the undergrowth, around the scattered bushes, quietly and carefully in the dark. Night battles were more dangerous, but the men of Gondor's armies tried to counteract their enemies' natural advantage with more skillful maneuvers; these night battles were nearly choreographed, and although this one had been thrown together in a hurry, years of training did their work. He could not see or hear any others near him, but he knew they were there.

As he moved into position, the part of his mind that was not occupied with the job at hand wandered. He was a young man, and had only been part of this company for a little over a year now. He was very, very proud to have been placed here, serving under the son of the Steward. His father, Calmacil, had served under Lord Denethor as a young man, and still spoke of those days with pride and a fierce loyalty. His father's eyes shone when he would chance to see the Steward, and he would, when plied with enough ale, tell stories of battles he had fought as part of Lord Denethor's company. And now he, Ciryandil, was a member of the company led by Lord Boromir, Denethor's son! He had resolved to do honor to the family history (which included others who had served and fought under previous Stewards' sons) and this year had been one of the happiest of his short life, despite battles and hardships.

He had, when he had first met his Captain, acted like one who knows he is in the presence of a living legend, as indeed he was. Boromir had a reputation for being a fierce and formidable swordsman, a brilliant strategist, and an exacting commander; he had been called the best Man in Gondor, and Ciryandil suspected this was true. He had found himself sweating, unable to find words even to introduce himself. Boromir had not seemed to notice, but had only complimented his abilities, saying that his trainer had recommended him highly, and welcomed him to the company. Some of the older men had grinned, though, and he had learned later that his was not an uncommon reaction for new troops, but that it always passed quickly. Boromir's straightforward and amicable manner made it difficult to be nervous in his presence, no matter how much one tried to be. He revered his Captain all the more for it.

A sudden noise behind him broke him out of his thoughts; careless footfalls crunched twigs and leaves, branches rustled as they were pushed aside hastily. None of the men would be so reckless! He turned swiftly towards the movement, sword at the ready, and tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes. He could not have been more surprised at what he saw.

It was Lord Boromir.

He let his sword drop along with his jaw. "Captain," he breathed in a whisper, "what in Arda are you doing here?"

"There are Orcs nearby. There will be a battle. Therefore I am here," Boromir said with a shrug, and not nearly as quietly as he should have, then squinted at him in the darkness. "Ciryandil? Tell me, which strategy did Hallas choose? How near is the enemy now?"

"They should be just over the ridge by now," he said with a gesture, "and we are using _tinco_ formation… but, my lord, you are not well enough to fight! You should return to the camp!"

"No, I feel fine now… truly, Ciryandil, do not worry!" He swayed as he said it. Ciryandil took a quick step closer, to steady him if necessary, and caught a whiff of the liquor on his Captain's breath. Gailon's liquor, he supposed. Everyone in the company knew of it, but only spoke of it in quiet jests.

"Even if you bid me, as Captain of this company, not to worry about you, I still would do. Please, let me take you back to the camp…"

"No," Boromir cut him off. "We will continue on towards the enemy. We will be needed in this battle." He looked towards the ridge, with blurred fire in his eyes, and Ciryandil knew that there was no argument he could give that would change his Captain's mind. The best he could do, he supposed, was to try to delay their progress, and watch over him as best he could.

With Ciryandil beside him, Boromir had steadied and quickly gone into the familiar role of careful, skilled soldier, though it cost him more effort than usual. They had crept slowly and quietly towards the ridge, and even more slowly and silently up it. Though he did not one bit like leading his Captain towards a battle in this condition, Ciryandil could not disobey his orders, and secretly cherished the feeling of being there with him; it was a story he would tell his grandchildren one day, he felt certain. At least, he thought with a gulp, if things didn't go ill when the signal came to attack. He was glad they were at the edge of the _lúva_, where the fighting should be less…

At last they had crested the ridge, crept most of the way down the far side, and waited, crouched in the undergrowth. Within a long throw's distance, the _glamhoth_ could be heard, nearing the pass between forest and hill. The signal would come soon… and just then, the two men heard a birdcall-like whistle… from _behind_ them. It was not the signal to attack. It was a Ranger signal, and one that Ciryandil was not familiar with. Boromir's eyes widened, though. Even dazed as he was, he recognized it. Before either had a chance to turn, the general attack call came, repeated along the lines until it had been heard by all. The small force at the top of the _lúva_, placed there as bait, had been seen, and the battle had begun. In rapid succession, the _glamhoth_ rushed forward in attack just as they had hoped, the archers in the forest and on the heights gave a series of volleys, and the night stillness was shattered as over a hundred swordsmen came forth from the bottom of the hill and from the far forest in ambush.

Boromir had recognized the call, but it didn't stop him from what he felt he must do. When the battle-roar began, no fog in his mind or ache in his limbs could stop him. He charged out of the brush… or rather, he tried to. Something was holding him back. For a moment, he flailed wildly, trying to free himself, then something knocked his sword from his grip, and suddenly he was lying flat on his back on the ground.

He drew breath to swear, and found himself blinking up at Faramir, who was swearing quite well enough for the both of them.

"Brother, you are truly the most foolhardy, troublesome, asinine _ass_ in all of Gondor's armies! What in Arda were you thinking?" Faramir spoke a few more choice words about his brother's stupidity and hardheadedness, words that should have withered flowers for leagues around, then subsided. "I take it you are feeling somewhat better?"

"Faramir…" Boromir said, still blinking, "why are you here? You were… in Ithilien… your messenger…"

"Yes, I know. And he returned and told me that my brother was laid up, terribly ill. I worried, and," he cleared his throat, "when I arrived at your camp, you were not there, and your men were in a panic. Particularly Gailon. I made the reasonable assumption, and it is a good thing for you that I did."

"I would have been fine," Boromir muttered, and struggled to sit up.

"Perhaps. But it is a risk you don't need to take. Hallas has things well in hand," he said, and offered Boromir his.

Ciryandil had watched all of this with a curious mixture of shock, relief, and fear. He had recognized Lord Faramir from the few occasions that the two Captains' companies had met. The shock had come from his sudden appearance from the darkness. The relief stemmed from knowing that Faramir would be able to stop his brother where Ciryandil could not. The fear… well, it occurred to him now that, orders or no, Faramir would not be pleased with him.

Many people considered Faramir to be the less formidable of the two brothers, but Ciryandil had always been somewhat daunted by him. He seemed… less approachable, loftier somehow, and he reminded him of stories his father had told about Lord Denethor, about the power in the man's gaze. He had to force himself, now, to speak.

"My lords… shall I…?" he gestured hesitantly toward the battle.

Faramir shook his head. "No, come with us. I suspect I may need help in getting him back to your camp." Boromir was already leaning on his brother as he stood, but he nodded assent at this.

With some difficulty, the three wove their way back to the other side of the ridge, leaving the noise of the ongoing battle behind them. The camp was still far, and Boromir grew more and more weary, until he was supported by Faramir on one side and Ciryandil on the other. Occasionally he would mutter something unintelligible, but other than that, they walked in silence. By the time they reached the camp, Ciryandil was nearly quivering with fear of repercussion.

As they neared the camp, Gailon and the others rushed out to meet them. There was a brief flurry of motion and chatter as they all tried to assist at once, but then they saw that their Captain was merely half-asleep and not wounded, and gave way for Faramir to bring his brother back to the bed he had left so abruptly, hours ago.

And there by his side Faramir stayed until sunrise. Ciryandil stood nearby. When Boromir had fallen fully asleep, he said in a halting voice, "Lord Faramir, I am glad you found us when you did… I could not…"

"I know, lad, don't look so frightened. When my brother gets an idea in his head, it is hard to deter him, even when he is not fever-addled. You are not to blame, and after all, no harm was done," Faramir said softly.

Gailon chose that moment to approach. "Does that also mean I am not to blame, my lord?" he said with a self-deprecating grin.

"You, Gailon, should have known better," Faramir replied, one eyebrow arched, but with a half-smile and a sparkle in his eyes.

The rest of the night passed without incident, except for two things. Perhaps two hours after the three had returned, the rest of the company filtered back, weary but victorious.

Then, a short while later, just before sunrise, Boromir opened his eyes again to find Faramir still watching over him. "Little brother, can we perhaps not tell Father about this?" he asked in a weak voice.

"Perhaps," replied Faramir, chuckling. "But only if you will promise not to give me a night like that ever again!"

"You needn't worry about that," Boromir said, smiling faintly at his brother, then sighed and fell back asleep.

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"And that, my daughter, is the tale of the night I spent with both of Denethor's sons."

"And the Faramir in the story is our Steward now?" the young girl asked dubiously.

"Yes, he is. He is a great man," Ciryandil said, his eyes shining with pride and fierce loyalty. "And his brother was also."

-end-

Elvish terms:  
_lúva_ is the Quenya name of the "bow" of a Tengwar character, and here means the wraparound arm of an ambush.  
_tinco_ is the Quenya name of a Tengwar character that looks kinda like an un-closed "P"  
_glamhoth_ is Sindarin for "Orc-host"

A/N (yeah, another one...) -As a known punster I would like to note that the title was not intentional, I just now noticed. What my subconscious does when I'm not looking!


End file.
